


Home Comforts

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Facial Shaving, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 22:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19327795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: After the episode Prisoner X, Jim needs his home.





	Home Comforts

**Author's Note:**

> The first section of this appeared a few weeks earlier attached to the TS concrit collection. This is the whole thing.

Doctor Wilder was safely out of that revolting arena but somehow Blair had lost sight of Jim. He swallowed irritation, well aware that it was a cover for worry, and backtracked his way through corridors that were clearing of milling ‘spectators’ and police team members. He found himself hard-pressed not to lean into the wall as if to avoid a snake or a repulsive insect as one protesting woman was escorted past, exclaiming that she’d had no idea, none, no really, this was all a mistake. Like anyone would believe her.

But there, further down the corridor was Jim, bruised and shirtless and starting to shamble in clear exhaustion.

“Jim!” Turn the volume down, Blair told himself. “Jim,” he called again, more softly. Jim looked at him, but said nothing.

“Hey,” Blair said. “Hey, man. What happened to your clothes?” 

“I could smell the pepper spray on them so I took them off,” Jim said, flat and matter of fact. He was covered in bruises and cuts – his face, his body. His knuckles were a bloody mess. “I want to go outside,” he said, like it was his dearest heart’s desire, which Blair could well believe after the last week or so.

“Yeah, sure, sure, Jim,” Blair said, as if his own heart hadn’t started hammering at the mention of pepper spray. “Hey, put this on will you? All the police team sighted your picture before we went in, but I’d feel better.” He handed over the ID that had been made up for Jim, photograph and lanyard. Just as well it is a lanyard, Blair thought wildly, because he’s got no shirt to pin it to, now.

Jim held it in his hands a few moments, like he didn’t know what to do with it, before he fumbled it over his head.

“How are your eyes? Your face?” Blair stared up into Jim’s face looking for signs of inflammation. A sentinel with a face full of pepper spray? Blair would lay good money that Jim hadn’t told Simon that little fact.

“Sore. But I think I dialled down. I think. I must have, huh?”

“Apparently so,” Blair said grimly and gently put one hand between Jim’s shoulders. “You want to go outside, let’s get outside.”

Jim said no more, just headed down the corridors like a tired hound on a confused scent. Freedom. Liberty. Blair wanted them too and he’d never been in this place more than an hour at a time; but Jim would have missed one turn-off without Blair’s reminder of the right direction.

It was cold outside, and Blair put his own jacket over Jim’s shoulders. He could see Simon talking with one of the lead cops. He caught his eye at a distance, angry with Jim and Simon both. How could Jim have convinced Simon to let him wander off on his own like that? And they called Blair a bullshit artist. He gestured pointedly a couple of times – at Jim, the direction of the gate, and Simon nodded. It was all the permission Blair needed to head for his rental car. Jim hadn’t waited for any permission; he’d forged ahead through the milling chaos to the gate and the parking lot outside the prison. 

Blair caught up and unlocked the car. Jim very nearly tumbled into the passenger seat and Blair had a moment’s qualm about how badly he might be hurt.

“There are EMTs back there. Do you-?”

Jim’s “No!” was blunt. “I just need out of here.”

“Out of here we can do,” Blair said and turned the ignition on and the heat up. Jim didn’t do up his seat belt. He simply sat huddled, pulling Blair’s jacket across his chest “I brought you some clothes – just a t-shirt and a sweatshirt. They’re in the bag on the back seat.”

“Thanks,” Jim said, but he didn’t move, even though he must be freezing. Blair debated finer points of shock and road safety in his head, and then made his decision and pulled away while Jim sat silently beside him.

They hit town, that company town with its businesses that had bought and sold out of Starkville’s corruption. Blair hated the sight of it but he still said, “We could find a motel. You could shower straight away. Sleep if you wanted.”

“I can wait until we’re home.” While he sat there, battered and looking half-dead.

“Jim, that’s forty-five minutes, even with a clear run, and-“

“I don’t want a motel,” Jim said, from between gritted teeth.

Blair drew in a long, supposedly calming breath. “I’ll keep going then.”

They were driving past the retail strip where Blair had approached Dr Wilder in the restaurant, when Jim said, “Pull over, will you.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Sandburg. Pull over!”

Blair pulled over. There was plenty of shoulder. Jim got out and Blair, worried for him, followed him into the cold, wet night.

Jim turned immediately. “I’m fine. I just want some fresh air. You don’t need to hover!” Blair lifted his hands, placatory but more worried than he’d been before. “Chief….” Jim gathered unconvincing composure, a process visible even under rain drizzled streetlight. “You don’t need to get cold. Sit in the car. I’m okay.”

Blair struggled with pointing out the obvious, that Jim was clearly not okay, but then he got back in the car as he’d been asked. He would give the stubborn bastard his space – his dark, chilly, damp space, but he wasn’t happy about it. He was not happy at all, and he grew less and less happy over the next ten minutes; Jim aimlessly walked up and down the grass verge that overlooked the restaurant’s empty parking lot before he sat on the hood of the car and stared out over the buildings and the river beyond. No noble sentinel watching for the tribe here – in front of Blair was a cold, miserable man who didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Okay, this is enough,” Blair muttered, and exited the car ready for confrontation. “It’s time to go,” he said to Jim.

Jim lifted his head. He still had only Blair’s jacket draped around him. “If I wanted to be told what to do and when to do it I would have stayed in my cell.”

Distress and exasperation rose equally. “Jim, will you please just get in the car. It’s warm, I can get you back home, where it’s also warm, and it’s a better option than freezing your ass off out here.” Blair leaned to rest his hands on the crook of Jim’s knees, still covered in ugly prison denim and dewed with rain that was only going to soak in and freeze Jim further. “Come on, man. Please.”

Jim took one last look out over the unprepossessing outlook and then nodded. Blair took the chance to open the back door of the car. “I packed some clean clothes,” he said enticingly. “Remember?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Jim said, shucking Blair’s jacket. Maybe it was the unexpected context – Jim wasn’t exactly shy about showing skin – but the brief show of half-naked body lit by the car interior light unnerved Blair into a far too sexual awareness. Not for the first time either, but this was unexpectedly raw. He shut the door on Jim – to keep the warmth in the car _and_ to block the bodily display. By the time Blair was in his seat, Jim had the t-shirt on and was shrugging into the sweatshirt. 

“Okay, let’s get you home,” Blair said. Finally, he thought. 

That flare of sex took a minute or two to die down, even with Blair telling himself to concentrate on the driving. Too many of the night’s events kept playing themselves in his mind – the crowd hooting and yelling as human beings spilled blood for their entertainment, before the police raid broke in; Jim unmoving and defenceless under the spotlights; Doctor Wilder’s pathetic relief. There had been that huge man still groggy on the floor – a mountain of muscle built in a prison gym and built with illegal steroids too, probably. Jim had taken him down, so people said, and Blair wasn’t sure if he’d have wanted to see that or not.

They had a clear run with the traffic, but no parking closer to their building than the lot half a block down. Jim had fallen asleep in the back seat, and Blair hated to wake him but what choice did they have except for a quick paced jog out of the cold and up the stairs to home.

Jim paused by the door as they walked in. “I left it the way you like it,” Blair joked. 

“No you didn’t,” Jim said, his head jerking to the (clean) dishes on the sink top. It was reflex, with no actual irritation behind it, and Blair kept smiling.

“Well, close enough,” he said. “Why don’t you go have a shower? I’ll bring you some more clean clothes and leave them inside the door.”

Jim nodded, but he still hesitated, his gaze roaming his home a few moments more. Blair headed up the stairs to get the promised clean clothes, and Jim was in the bathroom and running water by the time he got back down.

“You should probably use your shampoo on your face – pepper spray is oily and you won’t get it all off with just water,” Blair called.

“Believe it or not, Sandburg, cops are taught about pepper spray,” came from over the shower noise.

“Yeah, but not necessarily from the point of view of getting it in the face,” Blair said, quietly enough that anyone that wasn’t Jim might not have heard him over the water. “I know the worst effects should be settled, but you’ve got potential sensitivities,” he said more loudly.

“Yes, mother.”

Blair rolled his eyes and went to the kitchen. There wasn’t a lot of food, and so long as Jim wasn’t hungry that wasn’t a problem, but Blair reviewed the limited options in case he was.

There was a clatter from the bathroom - something knocked into the basin, maybe. Nothing to worry about, but Jim’s “Damn it!” had an edge to it that pushed Blair back to the bathroom door.

“Jim?”

There was silence. The door wasn’t locked so Blair carefully sidled through. Jim was dressed in sweat pants, nothing else, and his hands were clenched on the edge of the sink.

“There a problem?” Blair asked, as casually as he could.

“I can’t feel my hands.”

“Well, maybe that’s not a bad thing right now.” Blair eyed the bruised knuckles and the still raw looking abrasions.

Jim spoke from between gritted teeth. “I would like to be able to use them!” 

“Okay,” Blair said carefully. “It might be kind of counter-intuitive but what about some ice on them? Because maybe they’re numb because you’re in pain and wobbly on the whole dialling down thing?” Or maybe they’re numb because you don’t like remembering how you were using them a few hours ago, he thought, and you’re exhausted and you should be sacked out in your bed.

“That doesn’t…” Jim stopped.

Blair moved in closer, not quite daring to touch. Jim looked at the end of his control, and Blair didn’t want to be the one who broke it. Jim would be pissed about that, and resentful when he got himself pulled back together.

“Doesn’t what?” he asked, matter of fact.

“Doesn’t solve the goddamned problem!”

“Which is?”

“My bristles itch. It’s driving me crazy, and if you laugh I’ll kill you, okay?”

Blair actually looked into the basin, where the can of Jim’s shaving cream lay.

“I’m not going to laugh at you. Why don’t you come out into the kitchen and we’ll do the ice and we’ll think about this, okay?”

Jim shut his eyes, and took one slow, deep breath. He nodded. “Okay.” He hooked rather than grabbed the clean t-shirt that Blair had left for him, and awkwardly put it on. “Out, Sandburg, unless you actually want me to walk over you.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll get a cold pack, right?” 

Blair backed his way back to the kitchen area, and Jim followed, fumbling at the chair back as he pulled it away from the table. “Damn it!” He looked utterly miserable.

“Put your hands on the table, Jim.”

This instruction was followed, for a wonder, and a couple of cold packs were laid across Jim’s hands.

“I have an idea, for your two a.m. shadow driving you crazy. Let me know if it’s too weird.”

“I want to scratch my face off,” Jim said, with worn patience. “I’ll tell you, don’t worry.”

“How about you sit there, let the ice do its thing, and I’ll shave you.” Blair’s voice naturally fell into the cajoling, it’s for your own good tone that he used to suggest tests and experiments. He smiled brightly, too brightly possibly, but Jim’s face lit with wary hope.

“Do it,” was all he said. Not a command, but a decision made, like a man telling his doctor to do something unpleasant but necessary. Maybe he realised how brusque he’d sounded; there was that look about his face, but before he could apologise, Blair grinned and gestured.

“Hey, your wish is my command.” He turned to the cabinets. “There’s that big plastic bowl, you’re okay if I use that?”

“I thought-“

“You’re comfortable there, we can leave the cold packs where they are. They’re helping?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just a different sort of numb, now.”

“We’ll work with different. I can bring everything out, I’ll have more room for manoeuvre out here anyway. The bathroom is clean, I’ll give you that, but it’s not exactly big.”

Jim nodded, and Blair collected everything needed – Jim’s razor, the shaving cream, some face cloths, towels. He laid it out neatly while Jim watched with an odd, unreadable expression. Finally, Blair filled the basin with steaming hot water and placed it on the table. 

“Okay,” he said, “here we go.” He gently cupped a wet, warm facecloth around Jim’s jaw, and for one moment, he panicked. This was indeed way too weird. Then he gathered some self-control. The weirdness was in him, in his own guilty pleasure at being so intimately needed. Not in helping his friend. “So hopefully, I’m not smothering you here,” he said, as he held the freshly wrung out cloth over Jim’s mouth and under his nose. Jim’s expression was pretty much ‘If you were, you’d know, trust me’, so Blair accepted that, but babbled on anyway. “I know you’ve just come out of the shower, but still, it can’t hurt, right? They always do this in the barber shop scenes in Westerns.”

“I think they used the towel rather than a facecloth. All the better for the schmuck in the chair not to notice the bad guy come in.” Oh, now he’d found his sense of humour, the bastard.

“Okay, shaving cream,” Blair said, to cover the effect of being very, very up close with an amused Jim Ellison. He’d thought he could manage this sitting, but he was knocking knees with Jim. Maybe he should stand, but either way, he was cupping Jim’s face again, the bristles rough through the smoothness of the cream. His hand moved down Jim’s neck, as Jim tilted his head back, and oh god, this was a strange mirror image of his moves making out with dates. Jim had shut his eyes, trusting and relaxed, and that put Blair’s mind back on business. Getting the cream under Jim’s nose had no previous associations at least. Getting shaving cream under Jim’s nose was like nothing on earth.

Okay. Shaving cream. Hot water. Razor.

“Moment of truth.”

“Your beard is probably worse than mine. I think I’ll survive your razor technique.”

“All care no responsibility. If I nick you, I mean.”

“Now you tell me,” Jim said, as Blair rinsed the blade in the water.

Blair tried to remember if he’d ever spent this much time this close up to Jim quite this way. He didn’t nick Jim. He did a pretty good job, actually, he thought. Jim sat there, peaceful and cooperative, arranging himself as needed. It wasn’t heroic. It wasn’t attractive, especially when Jim tucked his lips over his teeth all the better for Blair to shave under his nose. It wasn’t even completely new, because Blair had seen Jim shave at campsites before now. But there was something about this moment - the quiet rasp of the blade over bristles and skin, the dim light and peace of the loft in these small hours of the night - that felt profoundly intimate to Blair and also atavistic, a link to sentinels and guides past. 

And he liked it, the way that he found himself liking a lot of things about hanging around Jim.

“You want to tell me how those hands feel?”

Jim tipped the icepacks away and experimentally wiggled his fingers. “Better? Sore, but more coordinated at least.”

“Good, good. So you think you can be trusted to rinse and dry your own face?”

“Let’s give it a try,” Jim said dryly. “It’s not like I’ll have to deal with sharp objects.”

The hot water gave Jim pause a moment, but it looked like it was a pleasurable one. “Talk about contrast,” he said softly, and rinsed and dried his face. With a little more care, Jim dried his hands and then ran one over his freshly barbered face and throat. The touch was unconsciously sensual, and Blair was unwillingly grateful for the raw patches and bruises that ran across the backs of Jim’s hands. They gave him something else to focus on. “You would not believe how much better that feels. God, it really was driving me crazy and now I feel almost human again.” He smiled at Blair. “You’d better watch out. You’ll be making yourself indispensable.”

“Well, hell, why not?” Blair said. He said it with a wide grin, because they were just two friends joking together, indispensable Blair, ha-ha, before he stood and took the basin off the table to empty it down the sink. “Better clean up, huh?”

A sideways look revealed Jim picking up the can of shaving cream with care and a small air of triumph before bearing it off to the bathroom. The towels and face cloths went to the hamper. Jim returned for the razor which was picked up with a frown of concentration and returned to its place. “If I find any bristles in that sink there’ll be trouble, Sandburg,” he said when he came out.

“I am a rinser extraordinaire. You find any bristles in this sink I will do all the cleaning for a month.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Jim stood silently beside Blair for a moment, and Blair didn’t think that he was supervising his cleaning. “Thanks. For this, and for backing me up at Starkville.”

“Did I? Back you up, I mean?” It had been in the back of Blair’s head ever since Simon called in the police team. “Because it looked like you were in a lot of trouble when we found you.”

“No plan survives contact with the enemy, Chief. That’s a fact of life. And I might have wanted to kick your ass for setting foot inside that place, but it was still good to see a friendly face.”

“Okay. I’m glad that I helped, however I did it.” He hadn’t looked at Jim for this conversation. He looked at him now, and said, “Go to bed, will you? I feel exhausted just looking at you.”

“Okay. Maybe I’ll even sleep.”

“You’re in your own bed. You’ll sleep,” Blair said, like he could command it. He wished for it. Let Jim sleep.

Jim nodded. “Good night, Blair.”

Away he went, to his bedroom. Blair finished tidying the small kitchen disorders and then went to his own bed. Undressing, that word Jim had used crept back into his mind. Indispensable. Yeah, sure, Blair could be indispensable, and Jim wouldn’t lift an eyebrow at Blair’s occasional flashes of physical want, and all would be well and all would be well.

But he’d helped tonight in the loft, he’d backed Jim up at Starkville, and right now they were both safe. And god, he liked the idea of being indispensable.


End file.
